The Aviator's Wife
Page 37
But I will not crash, not this cloudless, windless day. I am in total control of my aircraft, taught by the best pilot there ever was, and I keep a gentle tug on the stick, nosing the plane up, up, up, over the house—Diane is just a doll now, waving her hands over her head—over the trees, catching the wind, and then soaring out over the ocean. My ears pop, and I realize I have forgotten to bring any chewing gum, and for a moment I inhale the sharp, cool scent of spearmint—the flavor of gum that Charles always had on him.
The engines are so whiny, so loud—I’ve forgotten how loud! Even in an enclosed cockpit, they aren’t muffled, at least not to my sensitive elderly ears, and I marvel that we were able to carry on any kind of conversation on that endless afternoon, when we were burning off fuel.
I bank the plane due left, flying north now, recognizing some of the houses below; the dunes, the outline of the beach, although of course things have changed since the last time I flew over this spot. There are more houses, smaller and closer together; strip malls; highways now, segmenting the land into neat, orderly squares.
I have a moment where I want to fly inland to see what else has changed, but then I remember why I’m aloft in the first place, and head the plane out over the water.
The white waves keep up their steady, relentless assault against the shore, and I nose down a bit lower, trying one more time to imagine what it was like for him flying alone with only this cold, hard slab of water beneath him for almost the entire trip to Paris. I can’t; after all these years, I still can’t put myself in his place and see myself doing what he did. I still can’t stop admiring that boy’s bravery, his astonishing daring. I still can’t stop marveling that this same boy chose me; and I’m glad that I can’t, for we should rejoice in being seen, needed. Loved.
But it’s not the foundation on which to build a life, a marriage, and it never should have been. I wish I hadn’t taken so long to understand this in life, although I suppose I should be happy that at least I was able to imagine it on the page.
Peering over the propeller to my right I see it, a lighthouse on a strip of land curling out into the water, and I know I’m almost there. I reach into my pocket.
He dictated, in one of his last lists, that I was to be buried next to him in Hawaii. He never asked me if this was my wish, and I never told him that it wasn’t. I let him die thinking that he would lie beside me; I let him die thinking I was honored that he had chosen me, and me alone, for this privilege.
But I will not be buried next to him. When I die, I told my son on the long, sobering flight back from Hawaii, after we laid Charles in the ground beneath several slabs of stone, his grave crudely marked so that strangers couldn’t find it, I want to be cremated. And I would like my ashes to be scattered, among various places dear to me—my garden in Darien; the shores of my family’s summer home in Maine; over the sound, at a point about two miles offshore.
About where I am flying right now. I peer out the dirty side window and see the lighthouse far below, and a calm, blue harbor of water. Right—here—
I pop open the window with my elbow, bracing myself against the onrush of cold air, and I kiss his wedding ring, then let it fall from my hand, hoping that the weight of the gold will allow it to cut through the currents and fall over the waters of the sound, near where we honeymooned.
Near where the ashes of our firstborn were scattered.
I still don’t understand why Charles did what he did; why he had to father other children, have other families. Perhaps we both kept looking for our lost child. I did, by scanning the faces of every little boy I saw, every little boy about eighteen months with blond hair, blue eyes. By searching in my surviving children’s faces when they were around that age, looking for some gesture or laugh that might remind me of him.
Maybe this was Charles’s way of looking for Charlie; by trying to replace him, over and over and over.
Whatever his reasons, I don’t want to lie next to him when I’m gone and I’m not sure if my children understand. I know that if I explain what their father did to me—to them—they might. But I won’t do that. I won’t do that to him. I won’t do that to them.
I won’t do that to the generations of schoolchildren who will learn about him in history books, and marvel, and be inspired to try astounding feats of their own. I won’t do that to the brave, primitive monoplane hanging in the Smithsonian, ever empty, ever waiting for him. Just as I once was.
I’ll keep his secrets for him.
I bank the plane, and I close my eyes, just for a moment, and I think of Dana, back in the city. He is a good man. A kind man. We ended our physical affair a few years ago, tamping the flame into a warm, comfortable friendship—much like a marriage, I suppose. But I know that if I asked him to he would leave his wife for me, no questions asked.
But I won’t ask him, or anybody else, and it’s not out of any misplaced widow’s loyalty.
Dana taught me what it was like to be loved, to be equal. But Charles taught me how to be alone, long before I ever wanted to be.
But now, I do. Now, I’m ready.
I turn back toward land; the airplane has no radio, of course, so there’s no way for me to be in contact with anyone on the ground. And unlike Charles, I want to be. Charles was of the air, but I am of the earth. Most of us are.
I’ll never forget what he taught me. I’ll never be rid of his legacy; for the rest of my life, I know, I’ll be invited to dedicate statues, airports, schools, in his name. I will be invited; not those other women stashed away overseas, and I suppose for this, I should be grateful.
I will take my duties seriously, just as seriously as I once navigated as his crew. I will be the bridge between who Charles was, and who he was assumed to be. The keeper of the flame. The guardian of his reputation, for much of it deserves to be remembered. And it’s up to me, as the aviator’s wife who was once an ambassador’s daughter, to decide how much.
I will go wherever I’m invited, whenever I’m asked in his name, alone. I will leave there, alone.
I will fly, alone. Wearing my own pair of goggles, my view of the world just as unique, just as wonderful, as his was, but different. Mine.
Alone.
The horizon is blurring into the darkening sky, and I need to get back, before the day is gone. There are people back on the ground, waiting for me.
But if I don’t get back before the sun sets, I can always look to the sky and navigate by the stars. That is one of the many things he taught me, back when I longed to be taught. If I ever get lost now, on my own, I won’t panic, I won’t flail. I know how to find Polaris, and I can always steer by that.
For it is the one star in the sky whose bright, unwavering gaze reminds me most of him.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
WHEN I FIRST HAD THE IDEA TO WRITE a novel about Anne Lindbergh, I found that people all had the same reaction: a gasp of recognition, followed by the inevitable, “Oh, I love the Lindberghs!”
So I went off to write the book—and ponder the question that wouldn’t let me sleep at night as I began to corral all the research into a manageable novel: “Just what do we all love about the Lindberghs?”
There’s the name recognition, of course; everyone has heard of them, from either history books or their collective body of writing. But as I began to assemble the threads of the story I wanted to tell, I realized that while everyone has heard of Anne Lindbergh, the nature of that recognition varies widely. The majority of people know vaguely about Charles’s importance in the history of aviation, but not many really understand the astonishing courage it took to do this at the time; the extraordinary significance of this feat to the world as we now know it.
And while other parts of the Lindberghs’ shared history might be individually recognizable—“Wasn’t their baby kidnapped?” “I always heard he was a Nazi.” “She was a writer, wasn’t she?”—I began to realize how very few people were familiar with the truly operatic scale of Anne Lindbergh’s life and marriage. This
became my motivation: to tell her entire story; to try to understand the nature of this celebrated but mystifying marriage between entirely original individuals.
Most important, I wanted to make Anne the heroine of her own story, finally—as in memory (both her written accounts and the public’s perception), she is far too often overshadowed by the dominant personality that is Charles Lindbergh.
And, of course, he is a dominant personality in my story; it is impossible to make him anything but! He was a fascinating man, but a deeply flawed one; in the end, not the hero Anne—and the world—fell in love with, back when he was “Lucky Lindy.”
But while this is the story of a marriage, it’s primarily the story of a woman; a deeply intelligent, courageous, resilient woman. The things I learned about Anne Morrow Lindbergh as I read her diaries and biographies! The timid intellectual who, through marriage to the hero of the age, found she wasn’t so timid, after all. Actually, she was fearless; as the first American woman to earn a glider pilot’s license, she allowed her husband to hurtle her off the edge of a mountain like a slingshot. Through sheer determination, she became a confident navigator, one of the first licensed radio operators; she also became her husband’s copilot, the only person the most famous aviator of all trusted to steer him around the world on record-breaking exploratory flights.
This was the Anne whose story needed to be told, for few people today know anything about the pioneering aviatrix Anne.
But then there was the tragic—and more familiar—Anne. The woman who, along with her husband, was more hounded by the press than anyone in modern history, with the possible exception of Princess Diana. The Anne who had to wear disguises in order to go to the theater; the woman who was unable to answer her own front door because of all the strangers wanting to get a glimpse of her.
The Anne who, after her firstborn was kidnapped and murdered—tragically, publicly—had to suffer, until the end of her life, countless strangers claiming that they were her dead child. The Anne who had to grieve over this loss in private, because her husband forbade her to do so in public—or in his presence.
The Anne who never once saw her husband cry for his lost son.
And what about the frustratingly compliant Anne? The woman who tried to justify her husband’s isolationist (some say Nazi) leanings prior to World War II? The woman who saw what was happening to him, saw how wrong he was, but who hadn’t yet discovered she was strong enough to contradict him?
And then the ultimately resilient Anne; the woman who had to build an entire life for herself and her children when Charles all but abandoned them in his increasing unrest after the war. The woman who learned to talk back, to say no, to tell her own story, famously, in the beloved Gift from the Sea. The woman who had a surprising adulterous affair in middle age.
The Anne who, despite her public image as the model of a docile wife, refused to be buried next to her husband of forty-five years. And the husband who, despite his public image as the hero of his age, had three secret families—including seven additional children.
But did Anne know? Ah, that’s the question! She never spoke or wrote of this Charles Lindbergh. The Charles in her diaries is the Charles she wanted us to remember; the idol, the pure, heroic boy. I discovered that the diaries published in her lifetime were heavily edited by both Anne and Charles near the end of his life; even then, Charles was trying to shape his image using her words.
But I think she did know. And that in discovering this ultimate betrayal, she finally understood her marriage and her husband. She also recognized that she had been the strong one, all along. For the kidnapping truly broke Charles Lindbergh beyond repair; it can be seen as the explanation for all that he did after—the long absences, the tyrannical behavior toward his children and wife, the obsessive building and abandoning of homes, the restless search for causes. And finally, the secret families.
Whereas Anne—that shy ambassador’s daughter—was the one strong enough to hold her family together. She was the one who survived this epic journey intact, able to love and, ultimately, to forgive.
So. That question: Why do we all love the Lindberghs?
Because of Anne, I realized when I finished writing The Aviator’s Wife. Anne—tender, courageous, resilient Anne—is the reason we all “love the Lindberghs.”
NOW, FOR THE INEVITABLE truth versus fiction discussion! One thing I have learned after writing three historical novels is that there will always be readers who want to know what parts I imagined, and what parts actually happened. My answer, always, is: It’s the emotional truths that I imagine; the relationships, the reasons these historical figures do the things they do. I truly believe that the inner life can be explored only in novels, not histories—or even diaries and letters. For diaries and letters are self-censored even at the moment of writing them; it’s impossible to be absolutely honest with oneself.
For those who do care about the historical record, however, I will share the following:
The first flight that Anne and Charles take together in my book, unknown to anyone but themselves, is fictional. That is, there is no record of this flight; the first recorded instance of Anne flying with Charles is the second flight mentioned, the one she takes with her mother and sisters in front of the press.
The flight in which the plane turns upside down, losing a wheel on takeoff, is a compilation of many of the early flights before their marriage; they did actually lose a wheel on takeoff during a flight in Mexico after their engagement was announced, so I incorporated that into this fictional flight.
The basic details of their other historical flights, mentioned in this book, are taken from actual accounts.
The timeline of the kidnapping sequence is as historically accurate as I could make it, while I acknowledge there are many details that I left out. Again, this is a novel, not a blow-by-blow account; I was more interested in the emotion, the personal drama, than I was in giving a history lesson.
The basic timeline for the rest of the book is, again, historically accurate. The historical figures we meet are people Anne and Charles did know; major events that occur, such as the rally in Madison Square Garden, Charles’s record during the war, the visitation with the Apollo astronauts, actually happened.
Some may wonder why I didn’t mention every book Anne wrote, or every flight they took, or every move they made. Each life is made up of a thousand stories; it’s the novelist’s job to pick and choose which ones will make a compelling novel. This means that some stories will inevitably be left out or not as explored as thoroughly as some might wish.
And finally, I leave you with this: As a historical novelist, the most gratifying thing I hear is that the reader was inspired, after reading my work of fiction, to research these remarkable people’s lives further. That is what historical fiction does best, I think; it leaves the reader with a desire to know more. I hope my novel accomplishes this, and I highly recommend the following books that I found very useful: Anne Morrow Lindbergh and Charles Lindbergh’s collected published diaries and books, including Gift from the Sea and The Spirit of St. Louis; A. Scott Berg’s monumental biography, Lindbergh; Susan Hertog’s biography, Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Her Life; and Reeve Lindbergh’s memoir, Under a Wing.
To Alec
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHARLES HAD ANNE FOR HIS CREW; I have many wonderful people who support and navigate me through my journey, as well. First and always I must thank my wonderful editor, Kate Miciak, who pushes me to do my best with every book. And I have nothing but gratitude and friendship for my literary agent, Laura Langlie.
To the smart and hardworking professionals at Random House, I say, once again, thank you from the bottom of my heart: Libby McGuire, Jane von Mehren, Susan Corcoran, Kim Hovey, Gina Wachtel, Robbin Schiff, Sharon Propson, Kristin Fassler, Leigh Marchant, Benjamin Dreyer, Loren Noveck, Randall Klein, and Loyale Coles. Thanks also to Bill Contardi for all his work on my behalf.
There are so many other book-loving peopl
e who never fail to surprise me with their support and friendship, among them Bridget Piekarz, Nicole Hayes, Margie White, Sue Kowalski and Jane Stroh from The Bookstore in Glen Ellyn, and Becky Anderson from Anderson’s Book Shop. Thank you all.
And what kind of modern author would I be if I failed to give a shout-out to all my new friends on Twitter and Facebook? Thank you all for making life interesting!
Finally to my family, especially Dennis, Alec, and Ben: thank you, as always, for putting up with me.
BY
Melanie Benjamin
ALICE I HAVE BEEN
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MRS. TOM THUMB
THE AVIATOR’S WIFE
THE AVIATOR’S WIFE
READING GROUP GUIDE
1. The epigraph for this novel is from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry who, like Anne Morrow Lindbergh, was both a celebrated author and noted aviator. Do you agree with his statement that “One must look with the heart?” What do you think that means? And do you think it means something different to an artist (author) as opposed to a scientist (aviator)?
2. One of the recurring themes is how Anne will choose to remember Charles. How do you think she concludes to remember him by the end? How does it change?
3. Anne’s father says, “And there’s Anne. Reliable Anne. You never change, my daughter.” (this page). How does Anne change over the course of this novel? Or does she?